Raphael Thelen
Benghazi, Libya – “We’re going to celebrate, but we are not happy,” says Salwa al-Tajuri about the first anniversary of the Libyan revolution. The 34-year old artist sits in a garden in front of the exhibition “The Crimes of the Tyrant” in Benghazi, the flashpoint city of the uprising. Behind her stands a military jeep that Tajuri has painted bright pink and yellow. Huge metal sculptures surround her, made of weapons used during the revolution.

On February 17, Libya commemorates the first anniversary of its revolution. Celebrations are supposed to take place all over the country, but the people have mixed feelings. “So far we haven’t really seen any material changes,” says Tajuri. “The poor are still poor, and the dirty streets are still dirty.”

Libya is proud of its revolution, but discontent is growing. The ruling National Transitional Council (NTC), which founded itself only days after the start of the revolution, is at the heart of the criticism.

Tajuri returned from exile just two days before the revolution. “I hated Libya and Benghazi before the revolution. Now I love it,” she says. “But I have the feeling that the NTC hasn’t rebuilt anything yet. I’m angry!”
Many in Libya would agree with Tajuri. For the past few months, dozens and at times hundreds of protesters have been demonstrating at the central Shajara Square in downtown Benghazi. They demand higher wages, more transparency and compensation for the families of killed fighters.

“The NTC doesn’t explain to us what they are doing,” says Mohammed al-Zawam. The 27-year-old spent weeks on the frontlines. His eyes restlessly scan the room as he talks, and time and again he raises his voice. “We do not even know the names of the members of the NTC or how many they are,” he says.

For many, this lack of transparency is reminiscent of the days under the deposed and slain dictator Muammar al-Qaddafi. They demand a responsive government. “The oil exporting is almost back to pre-revolution levels. But we don’t know what happens with the revenues,” says Zawam, who runs a small clothing shop with his brother.

Meanwhile, other Libyans have more existential concerns. “Under Qaddafi we were poor, but we were safe. Now we are poor and we get beaten,” says Nour Farish. The 30-year-old stands between long rows of mobile container homes ten kilometers outside Benghazi. The containers used to belong to a Turkish construction company, but now they are home to 2,000 refugees from the western Libyan city of Tawergha.

Farish remembers the day when he and his family were displaced. “When the Misrata militias attacked our city, they looted and burned down our homes.” Farish was caught. “When they got me, they beat me and called me a dog and a slave” because of his dark skin color.

During the revolution some Tawerghans joined Qaddafi forces during a brutal siege on Misrata. Tawergha developed a reputation as being pro-Qaddafi. After months of intense fighting, the people of Misrata broke the siege and took revenge on their neighboring city. Today Misratan militias continue to hunt and kill Tawerghans, often indiscriminately targeting men, women and children.

“Every day we hear about one or two cases of abductions and killings,” says Farish. “When one person from Tawergha makes a mistake, catch him. But why do they punish all of us?”

Before the revolution, Farish worked as a chemist in an oil company. He hopes to return to his old life soon. But the chances are slim. “When I think about February 17, I don’t think that it was a real revolution. No, the strong dominate the weak. Before there was no difference between black and white. Now there is a difference.”

Back at the exhibition, artist Tajuri gazes at the garden in front of her. Parents with their children wander past the sculptures, and some take pictures with their mobile phones. Before the revolution, the building was the seat of Qaddafi’s local state apparatus. “There was a change in the heads of the people,” says Tajuri. “Under Qaddafi we couldn’t express ourselves. Now we feel like an exploding volcano.”

Not only artists have started to express themselves. The cafés and hotel lobbies of the city are packed with people discussing politics and founding groups and political parties. The first parliamentary elections are due in June.
Tajuri works in an organization that fights for women’s rights. “This is the first time that we can raise our voices. And I’m optimistic about our future. If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t be here.”